


All This Practice And Still No Grace

by th_esaurus



Category: Little Women (2019)
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Feminization, One-Sided Relationship, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:23:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22636672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: Laurie would have taken any humiliation, tenfold worse than this, to be as close to Jo as he was allowed now.
Relationships: Theodore Laurence/Josephine March
Comments: 41
Kudos: 213





	All This Practice And Still No Grace

**Author's Note:**

> S W E A T S

They had been more intimate than he could bear, but Jo would not or could not put a name to it. To discuss it would make it real, he suspected. The closest she came was when she made a woman of him. 

*

“What would they have called you,” she asked, tugging his vest off roughly, “if you’d been born a girl? I suppose _ Theodora _ would do—” she made a childish sort of grimace, “—but that’s an ugly kind of name.”

She left him to carry on stripping, and sorted through the girls’ clothes rail, their just-in-case for theatricalities: fairy wings and courtly crowns, chimney-sweep trousers, a witch’s shawl, riding boots and sequined slippers — all manner of make-believe. 

“What was your mother’s name?”

Laurie shrugged, awkwardly tugging off his stockings. “I forget,” he said, carelessly. 

“How can you simply forget?”

He was still a moment, balling up a single stocking between his hands. “Grandfather doesn’t talk of her.”

Jo pursed her lips in a scowl, perhaps more at her own indelicacy than Laurie’s, and huffed a sigh. “Then we shall have to call her Marmee as well, and that’s no good a name for _ you. _”

“You can’t just call me Teddy?” he complained. He liked ever so much for Jo to call him Teddy in her brash and off-handed way. He was her social superior, and it was not rightly done; it felt perverse in a way that warmed his stomach every time. 

Jo, instead, rolled her eyes. “I can’t very well call you Teddy when you’re dressed up in drawers and skirts, now, can I?”

“I wouldn’t mind it.”

“Don’t be coy. You aren’t coy.”

Laurie, barely balancing on one naked foot, gave her a mock curtsey. He may as well have cussed her with that little display of insolence; she could not stand it, and simply had to punish him before their game could continue. Jo knew all the softest parts of him, and he had the disadvantage of being naked save for his underthings, so she jabbed her sharp fingers up underneath his ribcage and into his neck and under his armpits, crowing, until he called out, half laughing and half keening, “I yield, I yield, Jo, stop—!”

“Hold your temper,” Jo snapped, in a way that made Laurie feel it was something she’d been told often enough in her life. “Be a good girl, now.”

“I will, Ma’am.”

She enjoyed that, especially without her prompting. She nodded, and finally plucked out two dresses for his judgement: a worn but lacy little fae-of-the-forest number, or a sturdy farmgirl’s dress. 

“You know I hate frills and fancy.”

Jo sighed, tossing the lace on top of his discarded clothes. “I should judge you, but of course I’m the same. I’d rather be naked in the meanest winter than wear so much tulle.” She threw the farm dress at him, and he caught it deftly; it smelled still, faintly, of hay and old lumber, and must have come from a real dairy instead of a vaudeville. “I’ll do the corset,” she snapped. “You always make it too loose.”

“I can hardly lace it up behind me,” Laurie whined, holding his breath as he crawled through the skirts, fumbling for the sleeve holes. 

“_Some _ girls _ must_,” Jo chided him coldly. 

“Such girls must not have kindly sisters to help them, I suppose.”

When he found his way free of the cotton, Laurie saw that Jo had already taken off her own clothes and was sat ungainly on the wooden floor, pulling on his trousers and shirt. They were of such a similar size, it was hardly something they hadn’t done before; but it caught his breath now to see her small, bare breasts shift against the inside of his tailored shirt. Clumsily, he reached below his skirts and pulled off his underclothes, hiding at once how much he liked the rough-hewn fabric against his bare prick. Perhaps he only liked it since it was Jo’s bidding. 

“I’ll not be your sister today,” Jo huffed. “I’ll be your husband, and you must call me _ sir_, not _ ma’am_.”

“Would I call you sir if we were already married?” Laurie had to needle her so she would not guess at his desperate excitement.

“Yes,” she snapped, tart, “if I were a cruel husband.”

She came so close to him he thought they might kiss - they had done it, on occasion, although Jo tired of it quickly - but instead she simply pinched high up on his cheeks until they reddened like a maiden blush. She spun him around on his heel and got to lacing the corset, brisk enough to jerk him upright, and he rolled his lips against each other, top and bottom, so that they might be flush and pink too.

She was curtly pleased when she turned him back to face her. “You’ll make ever such a pretty wife one day.”

“So will you.”

Jo’s face crumpled with disgust at this. “Don’t be vile,” she said, a casual wound upon him. “We’re playing now, you cannot talk back to me as you please.”

He always acquiesced to her. Laurie would have taken any humiliation, tenfold worse than this, to be as close to Jo as he was allowed now. 

He could never second-guess her. When they had first begun to lark around, she smacked his hands away from her breasts and would only kiss him upon her whim; she had far more interest in examining between his legs, not even his effervescent prick, but behind it. Triumphant, she had said, “So there is a way in,” and had kept him still and forced him quiet while she spat on her two fore-fingertips and explored. 

“Jo, this isn’t the way to do it—” he had gasped.

“Whyever not?” she replied, curt, as though his objection was nonsense. “Why must it be me who lies and takes a seeing to when you have a hole here as perfectly good as mine?”

Her proclamation was so blunt that it shocked him. He’d flung his arm across his eyes and, breathing shortly through his mouth, let her press inside him until his legs began to shake. “Jo,” he panted, “Jo, you must touch me—”

“You may touch yourself,” she’d said, busy, and Laurie at once took himself in his sweating palm and beat frantically until, sordid, he spilled across his own hip and stomach. Jo had been curious at his seed. She had never seen it until now, and had nothing of her own to compare it with. 

“At least a boy lets you know when he is done,” she announced, and flitted downstairs to wash her hands while he caught his heaving breath on the attic floor.

She was set in her ways. She did not much like the feel of his prick in her hand, neither soft nor attentive, although she liked to watch him self-abuse, directing his pace and examining his bruised erection afterwards, the white spittle of seed on his hands and skin. She still would not entertain any affection for her breasts, but did - on occasion and with a huff of annoyance - lift her skirts and let him see the pit of her. It was all coarse hair at first, but she crouched down and parted herself with her fingers so that he could see her inversion, dark as the skin of a plum. 

Jo would allow him to touch her there with his tongue, but not his hands. She never explained why. It was simply Jo’s will, and he merely was there to oblige it. 

This evening, she seemed weary. His off-colour retort about matrimony had put her out of sorts, and Laurie yearned to make things right. He hunted around the make-believe box and pulled out a pipe for her, carefully pretending to pack it with tobacco, light it with a match, and pull a few tentative puffs from it, watching the non-existent smoke curl up from the bowl. This made her smile, and she took the pipe from him, setting it between her teeth in one corner of her mouth, and patted her thigh for him to sit with her. She was louche on the ratty attic armchair, and perhaps she meant for Laurie to perch upon her leg - he was as skinny as she was, so his weight was hardly a burden - but he took the initiative and daintily sat, his legs under him and his skirts splaying out upon the floorboards, between her feet, laying his head on the inside of her thigh. 

Jo sighed happily. He had done very well, and she let him know it with her fingers carding back and forth across his scalp, among his messy crop of hair, sometimes gentle, sometimes letting her nails dig a little. Each was as nice as the other.

“You have very soft hair, Teddy,” she murmured. He loved it dearly when she forgot the pretence of whatever game she’d concocted for them. “If it were any longer I’m sure it would curl. Would you let it grow for me?”

“I’ll wear it in ringlets,” he said, soft and fond. 

“You make a much better girl than me,” Jo muttered, something annoyed in her low voice. “I wish I were the son and you the daughter.”

“You the husband and me the wife?” He was playing with fire again, but Jo let it glance over her.

“Yes. So that you might cook and clean and raise our children and tend the house and I could write a great play, or a great novel, and take you to bed whenever I pleased.”

Laurie let his head slump against her, his nose and open mouth closer to where her legs parted. When he inhaled, their scents were mingled: his own sweat from having worn the trousers all the day through, and the sharp tang of her bare cunt resting just underneath the taut cotton. 

“Can I tend you?” Laurie murmured desperately.

Jo was quiet. She’d always rather say nothing than lay bare her indecision. Then she bit down on the pipe, and unbuttoned Laurie’s braces swiftly, shuffling his trousers awkwardly down her thighs and letting him pick up the task, pulling both legs down to her ankles. 

Immediately he settled upon his knees and devoured her. His nose buried in her thick hair; his tongue parting her wet cunt to lathe closer inside. 

Jo’s voice was shaking when she spoke. “We didn’t settle on a name to call you,” she breathed, her hands still in his hair, clasping now, grabbing and releasing like an agitated cat. 

He hummed against her skin, thoughtful, and it made her breath shudder all the more.

“I’ll be Jo,” he said, shifting his shoulders underneath her knees. He could feel the damp sweat collecting there already. “And you be Teddy.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jo huffed, hot.

“It’s not,” Laurie said, his words made muffled and warm by the press of her skin. “Just for a little while. Just until you come.”

She did not call him Jo, and he did not call her Teddy. 

Nonetheless, he brought her off with his mouth, as a wedded woman might do her husband, if she liked him very much.

*

“Don’t dare spoil that dress,” she snapped at him, once her senses returned. “We need it for reciting Gothe.”

Of course he was hard and already half-spilled. “You can hardly truss me up like this and expect me to be saintly—!”

“You beast!” she crowed, and leapt upon him in only his shirt, her legs still bare, tussling him to the floor. “You beast, Meg wears this, and now it’s _ sullied—_”

Lawrie howled with mock offence, the two of them rolling over and over the groaning floorboards, laughing and swiping and spitting at each other. He was unaccountably in love with Jo. How could he be anything but?

They decided, in the end - a mutual agreement - that the dress was unsalvageable and would have to be burnt. And so Jo pinned Laurie beneath her, palm to palm, hip to hip, and ground down on his prick until he could not bear it, his cock spurting fully against the rough fabric; only the dress between his seed and her dampened cunt. 

She grinned down at him, triumphant. 

“I yield,” he sighed, so softly he could barely hear himself. 

He would always yield for Jo. There was no other way.


End file.
